I am a man. My erect penis pushes against the front of my pants, tenting it out. I want to touch it, to fondle it, to stroke it, to feel the orgasmic rush of semen pulsing down the shaft and exploding in a forceful jet. But I cannot.

About the only thing I can do is press myself against her. She is hard and smooth. At least I think it is her, for I cannot see. Yes, it must be her for I hear the rustle of paper. But my penis is numb; it has no feeling. All the feeling is inside me, the sensual tactile pleasures generated by my pushing, by the rocking of my pelvis, by the gentle gyrations of my penis. How should it feel, my penis? Should I feel pleasure in the tip? In the shaft? I do not know.

Are there other feelings I am missing? How should my balls feel? I press my thighs together, but do not feel them; my balls are tight under my penis, beyond the reach of my inner thighs. Instead I feel the coarseness of the cloth of my pants on my skin. It is different, strange, but not sensual. I want the pleasures of silk or leather. Perhaps even of steel, my newfound erotic friend.

Can I reach orgasm? I doubt it; I think I need more direct stimulation. Perhaps if I thrust harder.

Unexpectedly my nose touches her. Surprised, I step back with my right foot. I feel the chain bite into my ankles and my foot stops moving. But my body is still moving so I lose my balance and fall backwards. With my hands handcuffed tightly behind me there is nothing I can do to save myself. Instinctively I sit so my bottom hits the carpet first. Then I roll back, all the way back, over my hands and arms then onto my shoulders until my head finally hits the carpet. I stop moving and lie still.

OK, now what? Fortunately the carpet is soft so I haven’t hurt myself. I am simply surprised and slightly disoriented. I am also puzzled, for I remember hearing a soft but rapid clicking sound as I fell. What was it? I have no idea. I turn my attention to the unknown process of getting back up on my feet. I try to sit up and hear another faint click.

Oh shit! A horrible feeling that all my insides are sinking towards my feet overwhelms me. I realize that the clicking sound was the handcuffs tightening around my wrists when I fell on them. Did I forget to double lock them? I must have. I immediately roll onto my side to prevent further tightening.

I wriggle my fingers and clasp my hands together. They still work and have feeling. But for how long?

I consider my options. Escape is out of the question. The keys to my handcuffs are hanging from ice timers attached to the ceiling. Actually two ice timers in case one fails. They won’t drop their keys for another two hours or so. My only out is to go next door and ask if they have a spare handcuff key. Ha! I don’t think so. What would they think? Their neighbor dressed as a man, erect penis pushing against her pants, breasts squashed flat with bandages, ankles chained together with an absurdly short chain, eyes blinded by a leather blindfold, hands handcuffed behind her back and padlocked to a waist chain. I couldn’t possibly go there even if I could find my way. Could I make it down the steps with my short ankle chain? I doubt it. No I don’t think I could go there even if I wanted to, and I very much don’t want to.

Perhaps I could call the police or fire department. Fortunately I am not gagged. My first experience with a gag, an overnight one, has rather put me off gags, at least for long bondage sessions. But what is their number? 911? Perhaps, but where are the 9 and the 1 on my telephone keypad? I can’t remember; there are so many keys. I suppose I could call the operator. Is that a 0 or is it 01? But even if I successfully reach someone, could I stand the embarrassment of explaining my situation and having someone, perhaps someone who knows me, finding me like this? I don’t think so.

Is there a friend I can call? I don’t have many friends and none of them know about my interest in self-bondage. My mind shrivels at the thought of telling any of them. No I couldn’t possibly call anyone.

But I must. I must do something. I really don’t want to lose my hands. How long can flesh live if its blood supply is cut off? I remember reading that it’s about 15 or 20 minutes. That’s a lot less than the 2 or 3 hours remaining in this session. And if my hands go numb then I won’t be able to feel the keys and release myself. Or even use the telephone. [In proofreading this account, I now realize I did not make a clear distinction between numbness caused by nerve damage, and actual tissue death caused by a complete restriction of blood supply. In my panicky state I thought they were the same.]

I wriggle my fingers again. They still seem OK. Perhaps my handcuffs aren’t too tight after all. I test them. The right cuff feels tight, really tight if I clench my hand, but the left one seems to have a little play in it. I’ll have to keep my right hand and wrist relaxed so it doesn’t fight the steel. I suppose if my right hand goes partially numb I could still release myself with my left hand.

I decide to wait until I feel my hands begin to go numb before seeking help. No need to get embarrassed unnecessarily. I’ll try calling 911 before they get completely numb. And if I can’t, then I’ll just have to go next door. These thoughts horrify me. I’ll be so embarrassed I’ll have to quit my job and move to another town.

This all started as a simple bondage session. I wanted to pretend I was a man. The reasons are rather complex and not at all clear to me. At the back of my mind was a curiosity about public bondage, and I thought it would be more interesting to be bound as a man. As a preliminary test, I wanted to try being a man for a few hours, in private of course, not in public. To force myself to experience simulated manhood without the possibility of ending it too soon, I planned a self-bondage session. I set up two ice timers, each for about four hours. Two separate timers in case one failed, each with a set of keys. I inserted a curved double-ended penis dildo, complete with balls in the middle, into me and secured it with a rope harness, all knots at the front. I flattened my breasts by wrapping bandages around my body, and then dressed in men’s clothes; cream shirt, taupe pants, brown socks and shoes. (The clothes were not expensive, now that the recession has deepened, clothes on sale are amazingly cheap. But such men’s clothes are really quite boring, not at all sexual. The shoes were not really men’s, just an old pair of mine with low heels.) I hid my hair under a baseball cap and examined myself in my full-length mirror.

I looked completely ridiculous. Even without makeup my face didn’t look at all masculine, and my body was the wrong shape; my waist was too narrow and the bulges of my breasts were still very visible. And as for the penis, that was ludicrous, pushing the front of my pants out. (What do men do when they get an erection in public?) There was no way I could ever go out in public looking like this. What could I have been thinking?

As punishment for the utter stupidity of my fantasy, and to prevent me looking at my ridiculous appearance, I decided I must be blindfolded. Entering my walk-in closet I picked up my leather blindfold from its hiding place. My head harness gag was lying next to it. I considered wearing that too, but no, decided it would too severe a punishment for a long bondage session. The first time I wore it was far too long, it really did a number on me. I have worn it a few times since then, but only for short periods. I think I am getting used to it, but am not ready for another long session.

Next I closed the door to the bedroom. Once blindfolded I didn’t want to accidentally fall down the stairs while walking about. I congratulated myself on my foresight.

Before blinding myself I needed to chain my ankles together. In a previous self-bondage session, a few days before, I had managed to escape early by dragging a chair under the ice timer, climbing onto it and dislodging the keys with my head. I was determined not to allow this to happen again. I bent down and padlocked a chain around both ankles; over my socks but under my pants. Now there was no way I could climb onto a chair to reach the ice timers, but it meant I could no longer walk, only shuffle around with tiny steps. Straightening up, I removed my cap and put on my leather blindfold, pulling the buckles really tight so I couldn’t see out of the corners.

To prevent me removing my male pants, I threaded a chain through their belt loops (it would have been easier to do this before putting on my blindfold), padlocked it at the back and with the same padlock secured the middle link of a pair of Smith and Wesson handcuffs. Once these cuffs captured my wrists, this would severely limit the movement of my hands and hopefully preclude any premature escape.

Almost done. I felt for the key holes in the handcuffs to make sure they were facing the right way, inserted my wrists in their cold steel embrace, and clicked them closed. I didn’t close them too tightly, I didn’t want to hurt my wrists, which were still a little sore, and I wanted to make sure I had enough movement to unlock them once I got the keys.

I had a large poster pinned to the wall. This all sounds rather stupid, and I’m a little embarrassed to write about it, but let me continue. It was of some sexy bikini-clad model, I don’t know her name, that I thought would appeal to men. After my bondage was complete, I shuffled over to where I thought the poster was, and pretended to fuck her. OK, OK, very silly, particularly since my artificial penis was still inside my pants, but that’s what I did.

Back to the present. I am now lying on the floor on my bedroom worrying that my tightened handcuffs will cut off circulation to my hands.

I turn my attention to the problem of standing up. I’ll need to stand to reach the keys when the ice timers release them and they dangle in mid air suspended by their strings. But how do I stand up? I can’t roll onto my back to sit up. I must keep the handcuffs off the floor at all costs.

I am still lying on my side. I draw my legs up and try to raise my body. But there’s no way to stand up from this position, not even close. With my hands bound closely to my back, I can’t even raise myself into a kneeling position.

I straighten my legs and roll onto my front. I smell the carpet and feel the double-ended penis pressing into me. Despite the mildly unpleasant smell of the carpet, I am tempted to fuck it. Is this what men do? Fuck anything that contacts their penis? I half jokingly think that this would explain several aspects of male behavior.

Resisting the temptation, I tell myself my top priority is to stand up. Pressing my head into the carpet, I raise my body and walk my knees forward. Soon I can lift my body and sit back into a kneeling position. That was easier than I thought, although I am sure the carpet pattern must be imprinted on my forehead.

Next I try to stand up, but I can’t. I can’t separate my ankles far enough. From this position I would normally bring my right foot forward and stand up, but my ankle chain effectively prevents this. I try twisting my body and legs but there seems to be no way to stand up. It seems that I need either to use my hands or separate my feet, but my bondage prevents both of these.

I am beginning to get a little panicky and wish I had tried getting off the floor bound like this, but with handcuff keys nearby in case I failed. I should have had one of the ice timers drop its keys all the way to the floor. Why didn’t I think of that?

I know why. I never thought I would fall down while wearing these shoes; they are so stable. Had I been wearing my high heels then yes, possibly I might have considered falling. But no, stupid me never considered this possibility.

I feel I might be able to rock myself backward and stand up. I make a tentative try and realize this won’t work. It puts me on my toes and even if my leg muscles were strong enough to allow me to stand, which I doubt, I would probably fall over. And falling over is something that I clearly cannot afford to do. One more click of the handcuff ratchet might mean the end of my hands, certainly I would have to call for help and suffer unbearable embarrassment.

I have read many stories of self-bondage, and can’t remember any explaining how to stand from this position. Actually most of the people lying on the floor were in some sort of hogtie, and they had to crawl around till they reached their keys, or perhaps a knife to cut their rope bonds. Standing when hogtied is clearly impossible so they didn’t even try.

I remain kneeling wondering what to do. I squish my muscles, squeezing the dildo inside me. It feels good. Soon I feel a wonderful orgasm approaching. I keep squeezing and here it comes. Ahhh. So good, and so strange having it in a kneeling position. But it is somehow restrained, I can’t let myself go. My legs feel all weak.

The two smallest fingers on my right hands are numb. Oh God! This is the end. To try to restore feeling I relax my right hand and arm, then grasp my right hand with my left and gently pull it to relieve any pressure from the handcuff.

It works! Feeling slowly returns to my fingers. I massage them with my left hand to reassure them they are important to me. There is no tingling sensation as feeling returns; perhaps they have not been numb long enough. I twist my wrists and flex my fingers. Recovery from numbness fills me with hope. Perhaps there is a chance I can escape this predicament with both my dignity and my hands intact.

But I must stand up. If I can’t I won’t be able to reach the keys. Suddenly a sickening feeling overwhelms me, I realize I can’t open the bedroom door unless I am standing. And with that door closed I can’t go outside or reach my cell phone, which I now remember I’ve left in the kitchen. A feeling of panic begins, and I try to suppress it by telling myself that of course I will find a way to stand.

But how to do it? I can’t kneel for too long; my legs will get stiff. Perhaps I can use the bed to lie on and help me stand up. It is a brand new bed with a strong metal frame and with an ornamental iron headboard and footboard. Lots of attachment points! I’ve used them, but not for full spread-eagle self-bondage yet. I am a little afraid of that position. Perhaps in time….

Encouraged by the thought of using the bed, I decide to move towards it. But I don’t know in which direction to move. I think it is to the right so I turn and shuffle forwards on my knees. Surprise, I bump into a wall. Now I am pretty sure the bed is along the wall to the right, so I turn right and shuffle along the wall.

Another surprise, I bump into my chair. My sense of direction was completely off. But maybe I can use the chair to stand up. I lean my body over its seat, wriggle forward, strain my legs, inch forward on my toes to bring them close to the chair, and finally stand up. Success! (This was not as easy as it sounds. It was quite a struggle because my toes kept slipping on the carpet and the chair moved away as I tried to force my body onto it.)

Now what? I could simply stand or sit on the chair and wait for the keys to fall. But to be safe I decide to try to double lock my handcuffs to prevent any further accidental tightening. I remember placing my yellow-headed pin on top of my chest of drawers and realize that I could use it to push in the double locking pin. I carefully shuffle over to the chest and my penis bumps into it. I turn around and strain my hands reaching for the pin, but my hands are pinioned so tightly to my back that I can only reach the outer edge of the top surface. The pin must be further back. I think that if I had worn my high-heel shoes, as I often do in bondage, I might have had a better chance.

There is a long dresser scarf draped crosswise over the chest, hanging down at each side. If I placed the pin on that, I should be able to get it. I shuffle around to the left side of the chest, grab the scarf and slowly and carefully pull it towards me, feeling for the pin as I do so. There is a lot of junk on the scarf: coins, tissue, earrings, jars, a perfume bottle. I carefully move them onto the wooden surface of the chest. This is difficult to do, and hurts my wrists. I wonder if all this effort is worthwhile, but what else is there for me to do? I might as well continue. Instead of the pin I might find something else I could use, a paper clip for example. Just when I have all but given up hope of finding the pin, my fingers touch it.

For several minutes I try to double lock the handcuffs by poking the pin on the side of the cuffs where I think the locking pin might be. I am not sure if I have succeeded or not, but my hands get tired and I prick my wrist, so I quit trying and carefully put the pin back on the edge of the dresser.

For the next hour or so I alternately sit on the bed and the chair. I don’t want to lie on the bed, I am not sure I would be able to get up easily without lying on my back, and that is out of the question. I flex myself to two more orgasms. In between the bed and the chair I shuffle over to where I think the keys might be dangling and try to find them. My bedroom is quite large is this is not easy to do. I can feel the melting water drip from the ice timers into the bowls, so I know they haven’t released. I accidentally kick one of the bowls. I try to put it back under the melting ice by pushing it with my feet, but cannot tell if I’ve been successful. Periodically I have to hold my right hand to cure developing numbness in my fingers and the side of my hand.

Eventually, while sitting on the bed, I hear the subtle sound of one of the ice timers releasing its precious cargo. Although I know where both timers are in the room, it still takes me a long time to find the dangling keys. I can’t understand why I can’t find them. Perhaps I don’t shuffle in a straight line when blindfolded or, worse, perhaps they didn’t release properly. A hint of panic once more makes its appearance before I finally locate the keys.

Thankfully grabbing the keys, I release myself and decide that if and when I do public bondage I will not dress as a man. But, despite the stupidity of the session, I feel I have learned a few valuable lessons; how to get up off the floor, the importance of providing more release options, and the necessity to always double lock my handcuffs.